


Control

by Erea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson is Ric Grayson, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Requested
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erea/pseuds/Erea
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Reader, Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Kudos: 48





	Control

Dick remembers more than he admits. It's in his best interests to hide it: as Talon, if _they_ find out that he remembers, _they'll_ punish him. Drug him to the gills until he can't sift through the memories anymore, or torture him for hiding it, or kill the family he pretends he doesn't care about anymore. They'll do that anyway, though, if he doesn't do what they want.

You're lucky. You never quite got close enough to him to be in any immediate danger - a friend of a friend, an occasional teammate, a medical student who clearly had nothing better to do than save the asses of a bunch of vigilantes - from the Court. Well, aside from the time Dick crowded you up against a wall in the back of a club and kissed you hard. That mission got perhaps a little out of hand, too many drinks and too few reasons to control himself: the taste of cocktails on your lips, and Oracle's whisper in his earpiece saying t _he target's leaving, you need to follow, now,_ right as your hand slipped up under his shirt. He remembers. He pretends he doesn't.

"Of course they sent you.", you say quietly, when he catches you in an alleyway on the way back to your apartment. Your hand subtly shifts to ghost over the small knife you keep strapped to your side - he notices, but he says nothing. "Are you here as a warning, or a weapon?"

Dick sees your eyes crease, just a little, with grief. His memories are still fuzzy, still coming back to him in waves like a stormy ocean on a calm beach, and he's struggling to place everything quite right. So, when the image of that same grief on your face at the news of his leaving flashes across his mind, he doesn't know whether to trust it. "They don't like what you're doing. They'll want you dead, soon. You should watch yourself."

"Oh - they don't know you're here, do they? You came in secret."

He doesn't like how easily you come to the truth. He never did. "There's no point in hurting someone, if it's avoidable. Just keep your face out of the news for a while."

With that, he turns to leave: this alleyway is too well-lit, the soft glow of neon club signs and apartment lights illuminating you both, and he can't risk being seen with you. They're always watching. Your words chase him, though. "You're not their puppet, Dick. You don't have to hurt anyone, and you don't want to."

"That's not my name, and that's not the truth.", he replies, low and level and measured. "You're interfering with their business. That makes it my business."

"Interfering? All I'm trying to do is make healthcare _somewhat_ accessible for people in poverty-"

"That clinic of yours is all over the news. You're in danger of becoming a celebrity - they'll send me for you before that happens, though."

You narrow your eyes at him, but you take one step forward. "Are you going to listen to them? Jesus, Dick - Ric - you can't be that far gone. You can't be. You're still the same person, even with a bullet in the back of your head. There's not a fucking chance they managed to break you like that."

Dick feels his chest tighten when you step towards him again - you're right, you're almost always right, but he can't let anyone see the weakness unless he wants one of his siblings dead - and he pushes back the instinctive urge to _fight_. He's here to warn you, not to hurt you. Besides, the Court keeps him on a tight leash; if they picks a target without their consent, they'll make him pay for it.

"Dick Grayson died. I'm Talon. I'm here as the Court.", he says. Your hand leaves the knife - you were hardly trying to hide it anymore, and he doesn't like the fact that he's got your adrenaline pumping in such a way -, coming to shakily hover between your bodies, and he feels like he's going to throw up. You're going to try to touch him. He hasn't been touched, other than by Court doctors and torturers, in months. 

You don't close the distance just yet - your voice is so soft, too gentle, it's making his chest hurt even more, and he doesn't know if he possesses the strength to fight this. Not after months of the sharp edges of fragmented memories - he's yearning, however much he hates it, for familiarity. A reminder that he's still human. "No, you're not. You keep calling them, 'them' - not 'us'. You came for me, in secret, without them knowing. And you keep running your thumb over that scar on your palm. The one you got when your brother tripped, with that knife, in combat training. I had to give you four stitches."

When did you start tearing up? - Dick pretends he doesn't notice, but his lungs feel like they're being crushed by his ribs. Damian, half-brother and half-son: the mention of him has Dick careening even further into this hole, and he knows he needs to climb back out. He's running out of time. Disabling the suit tracker was easy enough, but it automatically resets every hour, and he's the Court's most valuable weapon right now; maybe coming to you was a mistake. Maybe they'll kill Damian. 

"I've done what I came here to do. If you care about yourself, you'll listen, and you'll lay low for a few months."

Part of him knows that he should leave now - he should disappear into the night, right now, and not look back. The hand inches just a little closer to him. You're not wearing gloves, but you should be, in the winter cold of Gotham, and he finds himself wishing he could- no, he has to _stop_.

"No.", you whisper, voice trembling but filled with conviction. He hates you, or he wishes he could. He remembers feeling something for you before he left, and he knows it's only grown since he began keeping a watchful eye over you, ever since the Court began discussing putting a target on your back. He wishes he'd lost his memories completely. "No. This is my work, I won't just give up on it. Don't you remember - you told me, that night you kissed me, just after we left - you told me that I was going to do good in this world."

With the final word, you finally move to touch him. Your soft, kind hand shakily raises to his cheek - Dick can't quite manage to fight through the longing for your touch, until the second your icy fingertips brush over his cheekbone, and then his adrenaline kicks right into action: it's muscle memory, and another memory, training with Bruce Wayne this time, claws its way to the surface. His gloved hand flies up to grip your wrist, and he pulls your hand away: too rough, enough that his breath nearly hitches in concern, but he maintains a tight grip and holds your fingers just an inch from his skin.

"Don't."

"Why? Why, Dick?"

Why is he stopping you? Why is he grappling with every urge in his body, every instinct that's practically screaming for him to punch you and hold you at the same time? Why is he working for the Court, even though it's killing him? The answers are all the same, really. He can't risk anyone else's safety. Better his morals, than the life of someone he loves. _Loved_. That feeling needs to remain a memory.

"Dick's gone. We're enemies now."

When your eyes flash with a visible devastation, once again, it distracts Dick just enough for your hand to slip through his grip: he was always bad with emotions, never quite able to keep them under control the way Bruce expected, and maybe a bullet to the brain didn't kill that part of him. He's starting to wish that the bullet had killed him, altogether. As you reach for his domino and slowly pull it away (your fingers are trembling, you're scared, he's scaring you), he remembers how it felt, to live without the mask. Your eyes are gleaming with tears - he manages to keep his own blank, somewhat, but he's already lost this battle. He's spent weeks torn up over the memories of his family, his teammates, and evidently he's so broken that all he wants is someone to put the pieces back together; Bruce would be so disappointed, Jason and Tim would pity him, and all of that would be better than them hating him.

He's pathetic.

You kiss him.

It's quick, so your lips are on his before he really realises what's happening - the drugs the Court have been feeding him are slowing him down, or perhaps he just didn't want to stop you - and he almost gasps at the icy cold of your skin, but he doesn't, and he doesn't know why he doesn't push you away. He can't quite bring himself to kiss you back, but he doesn't fight it. You keep your lips on his for a moment that stretches into eternity, and somewhere along the way, Dick closes his eyes. It's only so he doesn't have to see your face.

You pull back, hesitant, and Dick's chest is starting to _hurt_ now. "You're still in there. You can still come back, Dick."

There's no point in lying to you any longer: he can see the knowing in your eyes, and you look as though you're sharing even a tiny fraction of the pain he's feeling. You look as though you care. So, although he's reluctant to trust his own conclusions, or you, it's probably better to tell the truth now, and hope with all his heart that you'll keep quiet; there's no point in lying, but there's still a chance that he can protect you. He came here to warn you, after all.

"They'll kill my family if I leave. They'll kill my family and you, if they find out that I'm here to warn you. I can't just leave - they're everywhere, they control this fucking city, I can't leave."

He hears his voice start to shake, just a little - he's running out of time, he needs to leave - and he watches you spiral further into grief. You wear your heart on your sleeve, just like Dick Grayson did. He wants to be Dick Grayson again. Not this: this weapon, as you called it, a tool, a puppet for the people who stand for everything he once hated. That bullet should have killed him.

"Dick-", you breathe, and he flinches, but he doesn't correct you. "They can protect themselves - you can protect them, you're all strong. You can protect so many people, like you always have, if you just _come back_. You can be Nightwing again, your dad can make up some excuse about why you vanished, and it won't be the same - it doesn't have to be the same, but it'll be okay. It'll be okay. Please, Dick."

A beep rings out from the computer on his wrist. It echoes against the rain-slicked walls of the alley, so narrow that they're almost closing in on him, and the sound pierces right into his skull and conjures up a wave of panic in his stomach; it's a matter of minutes, now, until they'll realise he's missing, and Damian and Tim are both out on patrol tonight, alone, easy targets for the Court - they're going to find him, in this neon-glowing alleyway, with his mask gone and his lips tingling, and -

"You can't tell anyone you saw me, or what I said. They'll punish us both - you can't, promise me you won't.", he hisses, snatching the domino from your hand and slipping it back over his eyes: they must be a little crazed with urgency, and he feels just the tiniest fraction of relief as his face is obscured once more. You clearly sense the fear (he's ashamed to admit it, even if it's only within the confines of his own mind) because you swallow, hard, and nod.

"I won't. But, Dick - Jesus, you know you can come back. Your family miss you." Dick can't bear to think about the implications of that statement. He'll try to forget it, later.

Dick Grayson wants to apologise to you, to tell you that he's watching over you to keep you safe, maybe even to kiss you again - just to feel human touch again, he tells himself, just for a few blissful seconds - before he flees back to the shadows like the coward that he is. Talon tells him to disappear wordlessly. He compromises. He pulls up your hood, hiding your face from watchful eyes and the biting winter cold, and then he runs.

He sees Tim on top of a gargoyle, right before he reaches the Court's lair. His younger brother doesn't notice him, his back turned in the opposite direction, but Dick would remember that blood-red suit anywhere. He pretends that the memory doesn't make him want to cry.


End file.
